


Contrapposto

by vextant



Series: Happy Steve Bingo 2018 Fills [10]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (minor) - Freeform, Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Art Historian Steve, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-12 11:52:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16872432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vextant/pseuds/vextant
Summary: “I assume you are Steve Rogers, correct?”The Army woman’s voice is sharp but soft on the edges, like someone who is used to shouting but recognizes that she’s in a quiet place. Her kitten heels ring loudly against the tile floor of the lobby as she approaches him and offers a hand.He doesn’t take it. “Can I ask what this is about?”“Of course. Do you have somewhere private where we can talk?”—A fill for "Proposal" for the Happy Steve Bingo 2018.





	Contrapposto

_**September 1944  
The New York Museum of Fine Art** _

 

Steve can tell that he’s losing his audience. It doesn’t help that his audience is a group of bored schoolchildren, who traditionally aren’t all that interested in early Renaissance sculpture. That’s too bad for them; he needs the paycheck from the school to buy groceries for dinner tonight. Hopefully for lunch and dinner tomorrow too, if he can stretch it. 

He leads the kids to a large stone wall, with three large sculptures and a number of smaller reliefs set into it. The floor they’re all standing on is tiled blue, to add to the effect. Steve can tell the difference, but hopefully all the kids will just think that it’s real marble. Knowing that they’re just plaster tends to ruin the effect for a lot of people. 

“This is a recreation of a part of a fountain called Fonte Gaia, in Italy,” He says, “It was finished in 1419. Can anyone tell me what looks different from all the medieval art we just saw?”

Of course, the kids all just stare blankly at him. They’re young, fifth or maybe sixth grade, and Steve is still shorter than the tallest of them. He’s pretty sure that kid’s parents must have been giants. Or Dutchmen. 

One of the girls points to the sculpture on the left, a reclined man grasping at God’s hand. “That one’s a painting. You copied the painting!”

Steve can’t help but smile at absolutely any semblance of art history knowledge coming from the group. He steps closer to the sculpture in question. “You’re pretty close. This does look a lot like the painting  _ The Creation of Adam _ , by Michelangelo. But this sculpture is almost a hundred years older — and we’re pretty sure that this is what inspired him to paint that.”

“But you just said it’s a fake,” says the tall kid. 

“It  _ is _ ,” Steve tries to bite back his temper, because he knows the kid’s just trying to be difficult, “The originals are in the Palazzo Pubblico in Sienna. Italian government’s a little busy right now, transportation and import is very expensive, so we have recreations on display instead.”

He gives a pointed look to the teacher, hoping that she helps him out. She’s not looking back at him or even paying attention to the class — instead she’s pouring over the little map handout they all received on the way in. Steve doesn’t know what’s so fascinating about it. The New York Museum of Fine Art could barely be called a gallery, and it certainly has little-to-no original artworks. There’s only eight rooms covering the entirely of art history. Right now they’re in the Renaissance room, which is by far the largest. There’s the Fonte Gaia recreation, which is the only sculpture in the room, and approximately thirty High and Late Renaissance paintings done by masters (or more likely, assistants doing copies of the masters’ work). The pamphlet Ms. Summers is holding is little more than a map, a list of curators (three) and a postal address and phone number. 

The tall boy is looking at the sculptures, blinking at them slowly like their mere presence is enough to put him to sleep right on his feet. 

Steve tries to take a quiet, deep breath to repeat his original question. “So can anyone tell me what looks different from the medieval statues that we saw in the other room?”

He scans over the dozen kids, unsurprised but pleased when the one little girl puts her hand up to answer. Steve nods to her. 

“These look more like people! They look … more … ah….” She loses her steam quickly, but that’s alright. 

Steve smiles at her and picks it right up. “You’re right again! They do look more like people. Starting right around the 15th century — the 1400s — sculptors and painters started trying to pose people at more of a tilt. See Adam’s shoulders, here?” He points the Creation of Adam sculpture again, figuring it’s better to use a piece they’ve already been introduced to. These kids are going to learn something today, so help him God. 

As he steps to the side to give the kids a better look at the sculpture, he sees a woman in a dark suit out of the corner of his eye. She doesn’t seem to be with anyone — there are no other patrons in the room besides her and his tour group — and she doesn’t seem to be very interested in the art around her. The woman is watching  _ him _ , standing straight but shadowed in the edges of the room. Her shiny buttons and starched color make his gut roil. 

He thought that he was done dealing with the Army. 

The rest of the tour comes automatically to him. Working at the Museum three days a week for almost a year now means he’s given it just about a hundred times. Steve can hear himself talking, but his heart’s not in it — he’s just doling out information. Names, dates, cities. This painting was done in this year by this person, and then this painting was done in a different year by a different person. Isn’t art history fun, kids?

The Army woman follows him from room to room. Steve’s mind is spinning. He’s already tried to sign up — four times — and been rejected, he’s already been sent a letter from Bucky’s family telling him his best friend went missing in action in early June. He doesn’t know what she could possibly be here for. 

Have they found Bucky’s — have they found him, maybe? But no, they would’ve contacted Mr. and Mrs. Barnes first. Friends don’t count for shit to Uncle Sam, apparently. 

Has the Army found out about  _ him _ ? That those four Steves, all 5-foot-nothing and barely a hundred pounds soaking wet, with flat feet, a crooked spine, and a heart murmur, that they’re all the same guy? That the poor fool in question is really Steve Rogers, an asthmatic art historian barely making enough money as a docent that he can  _ just _ afford the cigarettes he needs to breathe?

He tries to reassure himself. Even if they  _ have _ found out —  _ which they haven’t _ , they  _ couldn’t _ have — even if they have found out, what could they even do to him? Throw him in jail, give him three squares a day and shower time? The water’s probably hot, even. Prison wouldn’t be so bad, especially when the system’s designed to make sure he doesn’t die when his whole body’s hellbent on killing him. 

When the tour is over, the teacher thanks him for his time. There’s no mention of a check; it’s rude to ask, and Steve tends to assume the best of people. He holds the front door open for the kids as they shuffle out. 

“I assume you are Steve Rogers, correct?”

The Army woman’s voice is sharp but soft on the edges, like someone who is used to shouting but recognizes that she’s in a quiet place. Her kitten heels ring loudly against the tile floor of the lobby as she approaches him and offers a hand. 

He doesn’t take it. “Can I ask what this is about?”

“Of course. Do you have somewhere private where we can talk?”

She has tight curls, pulled back away from her face. Red lipstick. Does the Army think he’s an idiot? Shove a beautiful woman at him, that’ll make him talk. 

“I have another tour.” It takes all his willpower not to spit it. 

“Really? Arnold at the desk told me otherwise.”

Steve knows that Arnie is behind him, watching this all unfold, but he doesn’t look back. He’s going to give him a piece of his mind later. 

The woman is looking at him expectantly. He gets the feeling that she’s not going to take no for an answer, no matter what he says. “There’s a meeting room. Here.”

The “meeting room” is really a large broom closet off of the main lobby, a little table with a decanter of water and some glasses and just enough room for four chairs. The New York Museum of Fine Art is not exactly world-renowned. Steve makes sure to glare at Arnie on his way in, up until the exact moment he closes the door behind them. Arnie gives him a two-fingered salute, the son of a bitch. 

Steve’s nothing if not chivalrous, even to women who were obviously sent to bait and trap him, so he grunts out, “Water?”

“Please.” She smooths down her skirt and takes a seat. She’s much more comfortable than he is with this whole situation. Probably because she’s holding all the cards. 

As he pours, he tries to work out the best way to approach the situation. It’s hard enough to guess what this is even about, and even more difficult to read her face at all. What’s that phrase that all the men in of Becca’s dime novels say when they’re speaking to a woman they don’t know? ‘ _ I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage’.  _

Miraculously, she dives in before him. “I suspect you’ll value efficiency in this conversation. Mr. Rogers, my name is Agent Carter and I am here to recruit you.”

He’s only just now placed her accent. She’s English, not American at all. Steve feels like an idiot that it’s taken him so long to place it. But then — how is she with the Army?

“They send you here by yourself?’ He asks, taking his own seat across from her. Should’ve left the door open in case a couple MPs swoop in to take him away. 

“After reading your dissertation, I asked to come.” Agent Carter doesn’t touch her water. Maybe she’s worried about messing up her lipstick. Or maybe getting him to pour one for her was some kind of test. He hopes he passed. 

She asked to come. That changes a few things. What would the Army — the British Army? — want with him? He just so happens to know a lot about art, especially early Renaissance sculpture, but he was under the impression that everyone in Europe was too busy bombing everybody else to care much about that. 

Unless, of course, she’s lying to him. 

More importantly — how did she even  _ read _ his dissertation? He never finished it; the M.F.A was hard enough, Steve would never have gotten all the way through a doctoral program with his shitty finances and his even shittier health. Even if Ma was still alive. 

Steve can hear the suspicion in his own voice as he says, “And how did you happen to come by that?”

“We have a mutual friend,” she smiles, “Professor Erksine.”

“He — Professor Erksine gave you my paper?”

“Yes, he was rather adamant about submitting it.” Agent Carter is sitting perfectly straight as she folds her hands on the table. Steve is starting to see why the armed forces suits her. “Mr. Rogers, the interest I represent is very concerned with people of a specific academic discipline. There is a new Allied non-combat initiative that is gaining attention rather quickly, now that the German forces are in retreat.”

“So, what, you’re looking for — for artists? Art historians? Or just tour guides.” He can’t help the joke — it’s hard to exactly think of himself as some kind of expert.

“We are looking for art  _ scholars _ , and I believe that you ‘fit the bill’, so to speak.”

Steve’s heart wants him to say yes right now, without knowing anything else, because serving his country is all he’s ever wanted and now the opportunity is right in front of him. He can fight the good fight by doing what he loves — and get paid for it. But there’s got to be something wrong, got to be some kind of catch for this. He pours himself a glass of water, and Agent Carter’s eyes — dark, dark brown, like her hair — are following him. 

“Can you tell me anything else before I agree? Or is it classified?”

Agent Carter doesn’t answer right away. He can see the gears turning in her head. He manages to take a sip of his water without looking too impatient. “I’ll admit that I can’t say much. I take it you’ve seen the newsreels? About the looting?”

He manages to put two and two together. “You’re going after it? All of it? The — the paintings, the sculptures — ” 

“As much as we can.”

Steve actually forces himself to sit back. They’re going after the collections — everything that the Nazis have taken from museums all over Europe. And Steve has the opportunity to help. He  _ can _ help, and doesn’t need to be a soldier, doesn’t need to be tall and strong. This, he can do just as he is.

“The American branch is actually supported mostly by Mr. Howard Stark.” Agent Carter offers with a smirk, like she knows the name recognition alone might sway him. It might have swayed Bucky, if he were here.

“Howard Stark? The inventor?” Steve’s not an idiot. He doesn’t have his head buried so far in his art history books that he doesn’t know the man on every other cover of  _ Life _ . 

“The inventor who also happens to own one of the largest private art collections in the world, yes. Do you speak Italian, Mr. Rogers?”

He shrugs. “As well as someone who’s never even been to Italy might.”   
  
“And your French?”   


“ _ Terrible _ .”

Agent Carter laughs and offers his her hand again. “We’ll work on that. Call me Peggy.”

This time, he takes it. “Steve.”

“Well, Steve, welcome to the Monuments Men.”

**Author's Note:**

> > I don't actually know much about Renaissance art besides what I looked up for this fic.   
> > I do happen to know a bit about the Monuments, Fine Arts, and Archives program during WWII -- the group referred to as "The Monuments Men". No, the George Clooney movie isn't really very accurate. It was primarily a British initiative, which is why Peggy is the prefect representation.  
> > The New York Museum of Fine Art, to my knowledge, is not real. Many organizations we now know as huge players in the fine art world (i.e. The Met, in NYC) got a lot of attention and benefits from working with the MFAA program. Many of their experts were recruited into the armed services specifically for the program.   
> >The Fonte Gaia originals are no longer at the Palazzo Pubblico, they're now on display at the Santa Maria della Scala museum. The actual fountain now displays recreations carved in the 1850s.  
> > It is a commonly accepted theory that Michelangelo got his inspiration from the Creation of Adam sculpture on Fonte Gaia.   
> > Bucky dying "in early June" is a reference to D-Day of Operation Overlord: 4 June 1944, when the Allies stormed the beaches of Northern France.  
> > Steve's dissertation was on the influence of Jacopo della Queria (who carved the original Fonte Gaia sculptures) on Michelangelo and other High Renaissance sculptors. In case anyone was curious. Abraham Erksine was his advisor before he had to drop it.
> 
> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed my alternate take on the "proposal" prompt.


End file.
